Kzine Issue 6

by Graeme Hurry

  She lay in bed most of the day. Not only that, but she lay on Dad’s side of the bed, the place he should have been. Usually her face was buried in his pillow. Maybe she could smell him there. I don’t know… I don’t even know if Dad had a smell. Though if I had to guess, I’d say that he smelled like hand sanitizer and sterilized cloth. And chocolate. Of course chocolate.

  During the past week, I had developed a new list of chores to do in the morning: heat the water on the stove, strain it through the coffee grounds, pour it into a mug and add a sip of whole milk. Then take the mug to Mom, still curled in bed. “Thank you, honey,” she would say, in a strength-less kind of voice.

  The next chore was finding Mom’s bottle of Prozac, and hovering over her while she swallowed a tablet with her coffee. I think the Prozac helped. A while after taking it, she would open her eyes, then sit up and move to the television to watch the Morning News. She would go back to bed afterwards, but a little movement was better than nothing, and I was happy for it.

  That Saturday morning, along with the coffee, I boiled grains of wheat in a pot to soften them, then mixed them up with lemon juice, salt, red onion, feta cheese and green pepper to make wheat-berry salad – one of Mom’s favorites. The wheat would give her some energy, I figured. Maybe she would even go outside today, and (if I was lucky) to the grocery store. We were running low on milk and orange juice, and bread for sandwiches… brainstorming a grocery list, I ripped off a Post-It note and scribbled it down, then left the Post-It on the counter, where Mom would be most likely to see it.

  “Mom?” I called. No answer. “I made breakfast… come out and get some if you’re hungry.”

  There was a groan, followed by the sound of springs creaking as Mom pulled herself to her feet. A moment later she shuffled in. She was shivering, despite a sweater she had pulled on over her shoulders. I scrambled to get out a bowl for her, then watched as she began to serve herself the salad.

  “How did you sleep?” I asked. Mom didn’t seem to hear right away. She poked around in the silverware drawer for a minute before looking up at me.

  “Well enough. Considering.” A strange half-smile came to her face. “It’s funny, but I’m already used to sleeping alone at night. It’s just… just the mornings, that I have to get used to.” Without looking at me, she turned and shuffled back to her room, holding the bowl in her hands.

  My shoulders sagged. I don’t know what I was expecting… that at the sight of the salad, Mom’s eyes would brighten, and she would come alive again, like magic? It was going to take time for her to recover, I knew it was, but… the disappointment still hurt. Like asthma in your chest. It just sort of seized me up, made me lose my appetite.

  Instead of eating, I cleaned the kitchen. A pile of mail had collected on the table, mostly letters from non-profits Mom had donated to over the years, coupons, and magazine subscriptions. A new Smithsonian, Newsweek, and National Geographic lay there, untouched, covered in the barest film of dust. Next to the magazines was a book. I forget the title… it wasn’t especially important, I guess… but I remember the author was Terry Pratchett. He’s one of Mom’s favorite satirists. Used to be, anyways. She kind of lost her taste for humor after Dad died.

  I saw a Library sticker on the cover, and narrowed my eyes. The book had been floating around in the kitchen for awhile now… I could remember her saying how she needed to get to the library to renew it.

  But that was before. Now Mom probably had forgotten about it.

  I picked up the Terry Pratchett book and carried it to her room, where she lay in bed, the bowl balanced on her knees. I cleared my throat. “Hey, Mom. You done with this? I can run it down to the library for you, if you want.” Her eyes turned toward me, settling on the book for a moment before passing again.

  “Yeah. Go ahead. Looks like a nice day outside for a walk.” I hesitated. I could see the indent of a doggy-eared page only about halfway through the book… had she not finished it? For a reader like Mom, such an act was blasphemy. Especially when it came to her favorite authors.

  “Are… are you sure?” Mom shrugged.

  “Yeah. Don’t be gone too long.”

  “… sure. Okay. Be back in ten minutes.” I turned and left.

  Later on, I thought how stupid it was of me to not say anything parting. Like, “I love you.” Or even “Goodbye.” But I didn’t. I just left.

  *

  Our neighborhood is nice, by most meanings of the word. The houses are a little small, and a little close together, but they’re a lovely kind of house, old and wooden and painted in dim colors. There is a generous sidewalk on both sides of the street, and old sycamores that mute the noise of passing cars. A good neighborhood for kids. Maybe even a great one. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived in, so I have no basis for comparison. All I know is that when I think of that street, a warm, safe feeling fills me up. You know? It’s home.

  The Sherman Community Library is a five-minute walk from my house, down two blocks and to the right. It’s a squat brick building next to an old sugar maple that the librarian likes to tap for syrup, even though it’s technically not her tree. The librarian’s name is Ms. McIntosh, like the apple. Her first name is Marcia, which is what I… and everyone else… calls her. She has this wild mane of frizz around her head, and this wonderful grin, like she’s been nine years old all her life. I saw her a lot when I was younger. There were bean-bag chairs in the far corner of the kid’s section, and I used to lie there all day, a stack of books at my side, listening to Marcia laugh and talk with everyone.

  Most days, if I make a run to the library, I go in through the double doors and have a conversation with Marcia. But that day I didn’t want to leave Mom alone for too long. So instead I went to the Book Drop-In slot on the side of the library, right next to the wheelchair-rail. I shoved the Terry Pratchett book inside and listened to it slide down the metal chute and into the bin on the other side. Then I turned and started home.

  The quality of light that morning was soft, somewhere between gray and golden, with more brilliant patches where the sun broke through the clouds. The green stuff, the bushes and trees and gardens, seemed lush and heavy, even though it was only mid-spring. My eyes traced the familiar cracks in the concrete as I walked, cracks filled with fuzzy green moss that was slowly, carefully creeping over the stone, breaking it apart.

  I heard a car door pop open somewhere nearby. Nothing unusual; just a library patron, getting out of his car. Or maybe someone visiting a friend’s house.

  It was the noise that came afterwards that made me pause for a moment. It was just a slight inhalation of breath. But that’s not right, there was more to it. It… it sounded like… like anticipation. Like the one breathing was getting ready for something.

  Next came two footfalls as the mystery person started across the strip of grass that separated the street from the sidewalk. I heard two rapid crunch-crunch sounds of his shoes breaking twigs in half.

  After that I was running.

  I never got a look at him, nothing more than a glance out of the corner of my eye. But I knew what he was. One of the Gray Men, one who, with or without the consent of the group, was coming after me. Trying to bring me to their house on Seneca Avenue.

  I sprinted across a street just as a car, a shiny-new black minivan, turned in behind me. There was a screech of wheel-on-pavement, and a single, shrill beep, followed by muffled cursing. I didn’t slow down. Neither did the Gray Man; only later did I realize that in a normal world, he would have, should have been slammed by the car, broken by the bumper. But he wasn’t. He ran on.

  One of my neighbors, a Mr. Trumsten who’d gotten a hunch-back and white hair since I’ve known him, was sitting out on his porch, enjoying the surreal quality of the morning. His rheumy eyes fell on me, running past his porch like the Devil was on my heels. I could see his mouth open, like he was going to tell me off, say that I’m old enough to know better than to cause trouble. Then he must’ve seen the Gray Man behin
d me, because his mouth snapped closed and his eyes bulged.

  A hand grabbed my collar, jerking me back so hard and quick that I fell onto the concrete.

  Darkness came over me in a wash.

  *

  I once hit my head in school, in gym class, during a basketball game. Basketball games in my school work like this; the varsity-sports guys get the ball, throw it to each other, and make wild baskets, ignoring the rest of us completely. Meanwhile, we run around and pretend to be really into the game, so that the teacher gives us credit for the class.

  Once, out of accident I caught the ball off a rebound, and Nate… a varsity guy on the other team… ran at me and knocked me over, like we were playing football. I remember feeling the thud of my head on the floor. Then it was like my brain turned off for a moment. Instantaneous blackness. It only lasted a second before I opened my eyes and found myself laying in the nurse’s office.

  When I hit my head on the sidewalk, though, it was… different. There was a ringing in my ears, a strange sound, like a mosquito whine. Instead of coming all at once, darkness washed over me in ripples, in waves that built themselves on top of each another until I couldn’t see.

  Then I was alone in the black water place again.

  This time I could feel a sucking feeling beneath my feet in the mud, like something underneath was trying to drag me down. It wasn’t a bad something. It felt anxious, in a motherly way, as if I had wandered close to the street and it was trying to grab me back. It misses me. It wants me home. Where I belong. These thoughts confused me, so I let them drift away in the current.

  Orange glints moved through the water, then shivered and parted, as something disturbed the surface above. Swirling shapes closed in, shadows that I could somehow see against the black of the water. Like the kelp-shadows from the nightmare.

  A man… something that looked like a man… appeared, falling through the water feet-first, like something tied around his ankles was dragging him down. I could see a shine in his hair, a richness in his skin, his clothes, his eyes. In the water he burned with the brilliance of a sun. I watched, transfixed, as he settled on the mud in front of me. His eyes were strange. Brown, but a bright brown, with golden glints that almost seemed to pulse.

  “No!” a Gray Man called out. He sounded far away. A ghost’s voice.

  Suddenly the water blushed with red. Rosy, scarlet clouds that filled my nose with a wet iron smell.

  I looked down at my chest and realized that the blood was coming from me.

  *

  The darkness faded until only a little lingered in the far corners of my eyes. The man that had been there. He had sliced me open, hadn’t he? My mind clenched down on the memory, and I thought I remembered blood collected on the ends of his fingers. Yet the fingers weren’t all I remembered. There was a smile, too. A white smile, beaming with an intensity that made his eyes seem orange, seem gold, seem burning…

  I shivered, and the movement made me open my own eyes. I was lying on my side. My cheek was pressed into a wooden floor that might’ve had polish at one point, but over time had been roughed down to the ribbed grain. My hands lay limp in front of me. I couldn’t feel them. Wincing, I twitched the thumb, the pointer, the middle, and a pins-and-needles sensation ran along the finger bones. Better than nothing, anyways.

  The wall across from me was painted black, and completely bare. At first it gave the impression of smoothness, but as I stared at it, I could see bumps on the surface like grains of sand. Black sand… this seemed familiar, though I couldn’t say why. Not from the dream, there was no sand in the dream, but from a place nearly like a dream… a memory.

  Only after I dug into the meat of the feeling did I realize that I had seen that wall before, while sitting in my Father’s lap. He had brought me here one day, maybe because Mom wasn’t home and I was too little to be left alone. I could remember thinking how strange the Gray Men looked, but I had liked them. I remembered smiles – not the brown-eyed man’s smile, but better ones, happier ones. There had been a taste of sugar and lemon on my tongue. I thought about this for a moment. Had they given me a lemon drop, to keep me preoccupied?

  It doesn’t matter, I told myself, sweeping the memory under the carpet where it could gather dust. The Gray Men had kidnapped me. If they were real friends of my Father, they would never have done something like this. Especially when he had asked them to leave me and Mom alone.

  I curled in on myself, pressing a hand over my eyes. The room was dark. Yet despite everything, I felt safe here; safe in my Father’s arms, like that day years ago, the day of the lemon drop.

  At that moment I wanted him more than I ever had since he disappeared. I wanted to bury my face in his shirt, I wanted to hug him tight so that he could never slip away from me again. My fingernails dug into the skin of my palm. Where was he? Why had he left me alone? Silly thoughts like that. It took a good minute before I could get control of myself again.

  After awhile I heard murmurings coming from another room; men’s voices. I rolled over and stared at the source, a crack at the bottom of the door connecting this room to the rest of the house. I crawled forward on my hands and knees, careful to tread quietly, so that the wooden floor wouldn’t creak.

  The Gray Men were discussing something. Probably me, I thought. I pressed my ear to the crack to hear their voices better. Sometimes their voices would fade out, and I couldn’t hear all that was said.

  “But she’s so young. I’ve never heard of a human her age being…”

  “She has the talent. It’s hereditary. And her Father was… He was the best we… .”

  “This… But Siva, he didn’t want us to bother his family. We’re going against his wishes, aren’t we?” Someone paced near the door, and I strained to hear the conversation under the sound of footfalls.

  “We don’t have a choice. It would take months to try to track down another replacement, and we don’t have that long. He wouldn’t want us to sit around and let this opportunity pass us by. If the only thing stopping us was the lack of an anchor, do you know how mad he would be?”

  “No, I don’t know how he would feel. You know why? Because he’s dead. And there’s a chance that what you’re planning is going to get his daughter killed.”

  “Plenty more will die if we don’t do this. Don’t you remember how your daughter died, Szürke? Don’t you remember how They sucked her dry? Why you joined in the first place? Why any of us joined?” This question was met with silence. The speaker seemed satisfied. “So it’s settled. We’ll make things short and sweet, to keep the girl as safe as possible. Then we’ll return her home, find a replacement anchor, and all will be right with the world.”

  Or maybe not, I thought to myself. Like, for instance, if I’m killed. Then what would you do? Leave my body on the doorstep for Mom to find? I clenched my teeth so hard that I bit the inside of my cheek. No matter what they said, I wouldn’t let that happen.

  The heavy footsteps multiplied and started towards the door. I pushed myself to my feet and crouched off to the side, my shoulder pressed against the wall. They were expecting me to be unconscious still; the element of surprise was my one advantage.

  A Gray Man fumbled with the lock, and the door came open. I saw tall men dressed in black suits with black gloves; more importantly, I saw a space between them, an empty space – freedom. I burst through and emerged in a room filled with the deep, reddish light of late evening. I whirled on my feet, searching for a door. There was none; there was, however, a window, open and covered with a screen. I was at it in an instant, tearing at the mesh with my fingernails.

  A pair of arms hooked under my armpits, and I was lifted into the air, my feet dangling beneath me. “No!” I howled, thrashing like a snake. One of the Gray Men ran up in front of me and made a grab for my feet. I lashed out and landed a solid kick in his crotch, a kick that would have sent any normal man to his knees, shrieking in pain.

  Only, he didn’t fall to his knees. He just stared at
me for a moment, his face blank. Then he gave me an unhappy smile. “Sorry,” he said, and got a hold of my ankles.

  I was carried back into the room with the sand-black walls. “Stop!” I screeched, as they wrestled me into the center of the floor. A gloved hand reached past my face, and I lurched forward and sunk my teeth through the leather, into what must have been his skin. But it wasn’t human flesh that I bit through. It was… it was like paper, stretched over a cup of Jell-O. Sweet, dark Jell-O that broke open at my touch. I withdrew my teeth and spat, horrified. “What the Hell are you?” I shouted.

  The Gray Man held his punctured hand, and I watched a dribble of black blood trickle down his fingers. He stared at me for a moment. Then he said, “What are we? We’re the good guys. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.” He laughed, shrilly, then turned away from me.

  Eventually, after a long struggle, they got me to stand upright on the floor. When that happened, it felt like my feet were weighted with lead, because suddenly they were so heavy that I couldn’t move them. Only then did the Gray Men back away. Most of them – there were seven altogether – couldn’t look me in the eye, and stared at the floor, their gloves, their shoes, instead. Szürke was the only one who held my gaze for a moment.

  One of them… Siva, I guess… sighed, and rubbed a hand against his cheek, where I had gouged a scratch in his paper-skin. “We’re sorry about this,” he said. “You have no reason to believe us, but it’s the truth. Your Father was one of our dearest friends. He sacrificed so much for us, to help protect you and your Mother, and all other humans that They prey upon.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “You have an opportunity to help us now, to help land a devastating blow to Them. They feed on human life, see… but in order to do so, they have to surrender a part of themselves to the place we are going, and that makes them weak. There is a sort of Feast going on today. They are dragging young humans to this place, this home of Theirs, and eating them alive. We must stop them. We have no choice but to enlist your help, if we want to save those people.”